Tuesday, November 1, 2016


Maybe it is your hue of mulled-blue, empathetic-gray
Maybe it is the way you hold summer’s spun gold at bay
Or maybe it’s your brooding wake of being caught between
The hunger of Becoming and the ache of what has been

When we were younger, love, the dreams we dreamed seemed out of reach
But now a season disappears like waves washed to the beach
And what seemed intangible and impossible, oh my
Slips through our outstretched fingers like a raindrop or a sigh

I love you; your sere stance seems to suggest you love me too
Though some insist that you are nothing but sorrow come true
Still, something in the way your wind-song strums the leafless tress
Makes me feel like a quite belong in your strange loneliness

Maybe it is the color of your once much younger eyes
Maybe it is the valor that remains though summer dies
Or maybe it’s the way your slip your whispers through my moan
But something about you, November, feels like coming home

© Janet Martin

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you for your visit to this porch. Any thoughts you would like to share?